Planet Purgatory by Benedict Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

well have been talking to the dirt. And so I watched, taking special interest in the barred window of the wagon. There was something in there, and holding my gun against my chest, I forced myself to peer inside. It smelled of musty straw, and it was dark, too dark. I had just begun to back away when I heard the shuffle of something approach the window. I froze, the fear in my chest overrun by the desire to see what was coming. And then I saw it — an alien green eye surrounded by shaggy brown fur. Its gaze was, for lack of a better word, evil, and I spun around, nearly tripping on my own feet as I raced to put as much space between us as possible. Fortunately, whatever spell Rosie-dog was under had been broken, and together we escaped to my parents’ trailer, where I poured myself a series of shots of chikka.
    It wasn’t long before people began filtering back to their respective fires, my dad sitting wearily at his picnic table while my mother hurried to check on her cauldron of bubbling stew.
    “Oh dear, I think it’s burned,” she said, hands on her hips.
    “So what happened?” I asked, turning to my dad.
    He stuck his lips out, gazing into the distance like I wasn’t there.
    “Tell me you didn’t agree to his offer.”
    Meanwhile my mother was becoming agitated over the state of her stew. “You didn’t stir the stew, did you, Davey?”
    “No, I didn’t. So Dad, what happened?”
    “Why didn’t you stir it?”
    “Because I didn’t think of it.”
    “Why not? You were sitting right there.”
    “I don’t know!”
    “That’s not an answer!”
    She was sucking the energy out of me, and I closed my eyes, picturing myself in the back, back fields.
    “Is it because you’re drunk?” she demanded, voice growing shrill. “Is that it? You prefer your … your … beet juice to my stew?”
    She was getting herself worked up, and me and my dad adjusted our seats in unison as her temper continued to flare.
    “You’re a lazy drunk! A lazy, lazy drunk!”
    “Ignore her, David,” counseled my dad.
    “The stew is right there! All you had to do was give it the occasional stir! But, no! That’s too much work for Lazy Davey! Meanwhile dinner is ruined! Do you hear me? Ruined!”
    “I’m sorry, Mummy—”
    “A lot of good that does!” she screeched. “You ruined dinner, Davey! You ruined dinner for you! For me! And worst of all, you ruined it for Dad!”
    I should have let her continue — she’d run out of steam eventually, disappearing into her trailer until the next morning when she’d come out offering everyone tea. Instead I did the worst thing possible: I snapped.
    “What the hell is wrong with you? There’s a guy out there with god-knows-what in his wagon, trying to bargain for one of our lives, and you’re freaking out over stew?”
    I glanced at my dad who had his face buried in his hands.
    “Shit, David! Why do you have to do that?”
    And that’s when it really started.
    “How dare you?” she bellowed. “How dare you?” Helpless, I watched as she searched the area for something to hit me with, settling on a wooden spoon.
    She must have hit me a dozen times, eventually breaking the spoon on my forehead before storming into the trailer and slamming the door behind her.
    Me and my dad sat perched on the edges of our seats, waiting to see if she would return. When it appeared all was safe, my dad took out his pack of cigarettes, offering me one before taking one for himself.
    “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said, keeping his voice low.
    “I know. But she’s so frustrating. Who cares about stew when we’ve got this going on?”
    “That’s just Mummy. You should be thankful she didn’t get you with the steel ladle like she did that one time.”
    That made me chuckle. I don’t know why; I still had a dent on the side of my head from that stupid thing, and that was years ago.
    “She got you good, didn’t she?” asked my dad with the slightest grin.
    “Nah. I managed to